weak link
by winteredspark
Summary: /She shouldn't have to question herself, should feel free to be who she is. But self-absorbed, stick up their ass, long-winded, deep voiced, dark eyed point men seem to have crazy effects on her./ Or, she'll always be his imperfection, his weak link.


**weak link. **

**Reviews make me happy :)**

_Being different _

_is being remembered._

_- Luciano Miguel Contento_

**i **

Arthur thinks she's the weak link.

He never actually says it, simply watches from Dom's side like he's a puppy dog or something; his dark eyes follow her everywhere she goes, into the darkest corners of her nightmares. She'd never tell him how she curls into a little ball when she's alone, studies her hands and the way the nails are too short - she never got over her stress-induced nail biting habit, damn it. She'd never tell him how many damn times she's asked herself why she acts the way she does. She shouldn't have to question herself, should feel free to be who she is.

But self-absorbed, stick up their ass, long-winded, deep voiced, dark eyed point men seem to have crazy effects on her. Not like she's met someone like Arthur before this, someone so calm and collected it sends chills up her spine, but that's beside the point.

It gets to the point where she's not sure whether to freeze up at his touch or scream at him the moment he makes another comment at her "typically juvenile behavior, one that could capsize the whole mission." Mission my ass. Just because she carries the possibilities of the world at her fingertips and tries to twist them in ways probably deemed unfit, just because she wears the knitted red sweater her nana made her - before she died - when it's eighty five outside, sips hot cocoa when the greenhouse effect is surely going to kill them one of these days. Just because she sometimes slips up and hates the look in Arthur's eyes that says "you're incapable of doing this" does _not_ mean she is a failure.

She's just different. Or, as her old English professor would say, "One who's plethora of knowledge has branched off in a seemingly incorrect but still quite as viable path."

If anything, _Arthur_ is the failure, the weak link in this whole thing. He sits there in his tailored suits, with his smooth speech probably practiced a million times in front of the mirror for optimum effect. He acts so invincible sometimes, like there's not a word in the world that could make him crumble, like everyone are ants scattering about around him. That face of his stays so blank, so unreadable, sometimes she just wants to scream; because she knows that beneath the surface there is a man who is scared to come out. She's seen the little looks when they think they're about to die, the moment when their plan nearly unravels for the thousanth time, the look of fear, guilt that he could be the one to screw this all up.

So _damn_ him for thinking she's the weak link.

She thinks it's best to stay away from the point man, considering every time they cross paths he gives her that little look that makes her feel just a little bit worse about herself. So she buries herself in her creations, in the precise decorations of the rooms and the equipment the team will need once they are inside the dream. She practices in the use of fire-arms - which she's only used once, when she was ten, and that was an accident - with Eames, catches up on a few hours of sleep whenever Yusof decides he'll release her from being his little lab-rat.

And then Arthur has to go and kiss her.

She wasn't expecting it, doesn't know what to feel when their lips touch. She hasn't thought even once about kissing this man in front of her, the man with the slicked hair and the bottomless eyes, and if she had - which she _hadn't_ - she would have thought his lips, skin, would be rough. But his lips caress hers so softly it throws her right off guard and she feels her legs turn to jelly. Just as he pulls back to eye the projections, she instinctively leans back towards him, needing the touch. But she wasn't thinking, because thinking about kissing Arthur...?

Preposterous.

She doesn't sleep for so many nights she loses count. When her eyes finally close each night, dawn is breaking, and she dreams of lithe fingers and dark eyes, the smooth voice of the point man. There are many dreams, dreams in which they are walking about and she gently pries the fitted jacket from his shoulders; dreams in which he watches her and tells her that she's the best architect he's ever seen in his whole life. Dreams in which he throws himself in front of a bullet for her, kisses her as he fades away.

It's going on ten-thirty the morning after the Fischer job when fingers shake her awake and she jolts from her dreams - or nightmares, she's not sure which - only to see Arthur staring down at her with raised eyebrows. She realizes that she's clutching the pillow in front of her as though it is him on his death bed and let's go like she's been burned.

"Are you alright?" It's the first time Arthur has ever asked her something like that. She doesn't believe that he actually cares.

"Fine." She throws the covers back, purposely not meeting his eyes.

"Ariadne -"

"Arthur?" She dares a quick, burning look at him. He's not wearing his suit, just a short-sleeved shirt with the name of an obscure college and dark jeans.

"You -" he looks uncomfortable, an expression she's not used to seeing on him. "You've done good." His eyes run over her, she supposes checking to make sure she hasn't gotten any uglier since yesterday. His eyes hover on her face; he's actually looking at her for once. Her heart gives a loud thump in her chest and she hates Arthur for making her feel this way.

_You've done good._ A compliment. She bites her lip.

His way of saying goodbye, finally telling her that she is worth it after all this time. But the funny thing is, she didn't need him to tell her. Slowly, after watching him for some time, Ariadne figured out that she was worth it to begin with. There was nothing wrong with being different; if anything, she should pity those like Arthur who hid behind their slicked hair and fitted suits, begging to fit in with the rest, to blend in.

She just her neck out, nods slowly, follows him to the door.

He's going to leave, she's supposed from the start, because while he does believe in precision and perfection, he doesn't believe in fighting for something - someone - if it puts his heart on the line. Arthur can call her stupid all he wants, but Ariadne isn't ashamed of the fact that she clings to those she loves with everything in her.

"Goodbye, Arthur," she says, barely above a whisper.

And damn him, he leans in and kisses her before she's aware of it. She hates herself for stretching up, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him back. She wishes he was kissing her slowly, savoring the taste of her mouth, acting as though this was an exercise he had to perfect. At least then she could shove him away and tell him to get his head out of his ass.

Only, as he pulls back, Ariadne realizes that he'd kissed her like this was the last time he'd ever see her, like he loved her more than anything. She shivers as his fingers slip down her arm, wrist, and then he's gone like he was never there.

And she's smiling, because she knows that eventually, sometime, somewhere -

- he'll return for his weak link.


End file.
